in waves
by effies-scrapbook
Summary: Someone's gotta be a fatalist…and that someone has always been me, hasn't it? You're the catalyst of the grand old thing, after all, Haymitch. Just roles we are already in…why is it so different? /hayffie angst. feeeeeeeels.


**in waves || it won't be long till the world is gone**

* * *

In between the District 12 mentor and escort is a heavy, uninterrupted silence. They're used to working in this comfortable quiet, the absence of noise almost, in itself, a better sound than a forced conversation. He's busy fumbling with his pager, an old, useless thing Plutarch had dropped into his lap a couple weeks ago; "For communication," the rebel leader explained. "It's simple, Haymitch. You can figure it out."

Lord knows how it even works.

On the other side of the couch is the escort. A young — yet terribly aged by Capitol standards — woman, Effie, her thumbs spinning around each other in a dizzying pattern. She's nervous, clear as day. Then again so is everyone else.

He looks up from his pager, his eyes fixed on her twitching and twirling thumbs. He shakes his head; Effie's false determination couldn't mask all of her fear, so it seems. The so-called "brave" yuppy is nothing but a little girl in the time of action.

As if she knew he was thinking of her, she looks up and her verdigris eyes meet with his. His heart leaps out and about, the beating erratic and frantic. Ugh. Stupid woman. Does she read minds or something? With her, anything is possible.

Then she smiles — and he wonders, who the hell smiles out of random?

She holds his gaze with careful, warm eyes. Instinctively, her wets his lips and he marvels at how soft she seems when she's not being her usual self.

Come to think of it, what _is_ her usual self?

_Stop it,_ he thinks. _Stop looking at her. You've got much more important things at hand._

Tearing his eyes from hers, Haymitch mulls over the life laid out perfectly still in front of him. Of the things he must do, only two facts jump out at him: One, Haymitch is in charge of bringing home the Mockingjay safe and sound, first and foremost, no one leaves without her. And two, Effie Trinket is not part of anything that he has to accomplish. No shocker there. After all, she has another task for her to do, another matter she has to attend to. She is nothing of a concern to Haymitch Abernathy. At least, she's not supposed to be.

But that's the thing. He knows what's going to end up happening. She, on the other hand doesn't.

What is he doing? Its not his job to be concerned. The mentor scowls slightly. He's wasting his time worrying about her. She's her own woman, she can take care of herself.

The television on the wall, almost suddenly, becomes relevant to the two. Effie jumps at the sound of a coughing and hacking Peeta, and when Haymitch tears away from her to the screen, it is apparent the tribute almost died. From the way Katniss beamed at Finnick, he assumes the District Four victor had saved his life.

Good, at least Finnick knows what's important for the mission.

"I thought — " Effie starts to say, but she ditches the thought and gets up and rounds to the kitchen across. Haymitch looks up at her, then down back to the faded pager. He runs his thumb over the screen, the crack dug forever into the surface.

She comes back minutes later with a martini in hand and a beer bottle in another. She hands him the beer, a silent offertory, and a placid smile crosses her lips when she sinks back into the opposite end of the sofa.

He watches her carefully, in awe of the quiet she is radiating. She sips the drink, and when a sponser tweets another lump sum of cash towards the kids, she agrees to the money and secretly transfers portions to the other mentors. Just like they all agreed to all these months ago.

Haymitch rolls his eyes, so hard he'd thought they'd be permenantly stuck there if he didn't know any better. He's not sure why he finds it amusing, to see her work so efficiently in the rebellion, but it just _is_. For the rest of the day, he divides his attention between the kids fighting for their lives and the woman fighting her fear, and when it was time to retire to bed, he starts to wonder if Effie really knew what she was getting into.

**.x.**

Morning comes and he is awoken by the aroma of coffee brewing. She's in the kitchen, tapping away at her media devices, stirring one cup with a long, silver spoon, her finger curling around the steam. When he mumbles a half-hearted, "Good mornin'" he wonders why she replies so happily.

After all, it is a habit of sorts to exchange their mornings half-heartedly. What world do they know without the underlying _fuck yous?_

He swings over to her, and again, the Games is on low, just mere background noise; the rebellion is the much bigger picture, and it is chasing at their tails. Besides, the kids know how to survive, and they've got people making sure that they do. She gives a small smile of reassurance, and when they lock eyes, she places his cup in his hands, their fingers touching lightly, but just enough for him to notice how soft they are against his own.

Just as quickly as their skin had met, he takes his cup and wanders off to the couch, playing with the pager in his pocket. He doesn't fail to observe that his coffee is exactly the way he likes it. Have they really known each other that long, to the point where they know the tastes and preferences of the other? When he thinks about it, he guesses that they have. He knows that she takes her coffee black as night. Bitter, sharp, pungent. Everything like her, and yet, yet nothing so.

"Any news?" she asks, crossing back to the couch with her own cup warming those soft soft hands. She takes a seat in her spot and mouths the name "Plutarch" to confirm his questions. Haymitch shakes his head.

She nods, sipping her coffee. She looks away, then to the television; Enobaria and Brutus are fighting over food, but neither of them are looking to kill the other. Just arguing, like they usually are. Haymitch sees a fading sadness in her green eyes, and faintly, he feels it too. Neither of the two victors were ever anything more than people he knew to him. But they were survivors too, just like him, as much as he hated to say it. They're not part of the Rebellion. Maybe that's why she was already mourning their deaths; the blast will kill them, or if not, the Capitol will.

She keeps her stare on Finnick, now moving in closer to the edge of the arena. "Anything from Flurry?"

The victor from District 3. He's in charge of cutting off communications and security within the Capitol. On his signal, everyone will get in position to ready themselves to fight against the city, to be captured, and most of all, to be prepared to protect the rebellion. In other words, he rings the bell that alerts everyone to start say their goodbyes. To be ready for the brutality the Capitol's prisons comes with. Because there's no turning back now.

There has been no word from him, either. He shrugs, "Nothing."

She nods — slowly, he observes — and excuses herself for the bathroom.

When she turns away to head in the other direction, he lets his eyes wander and drift to her curves; slightly, just for a little while, he wonders her skin is just as soft as her hands are. Then. Then the damned woman glances back at him, and he's pretty sure she's blushing.

Wouldn't be a surprise, since he probably is too.

**.x.**

Later, later in, their words exchanged become substantial and real — the next days are spent in laughter, in smiles. He realizes things about her, notices things he's never seen before.

For example, when she laughs, her head bows down and a dimple in her right cheek forms, a small depression in her pale complexion bringing out her best in the simplest of ways. And damn it, she's beautiful. She's not the ignorant little thing he's always figured she'd be. Instead, she's so genuine.

They don't talk about the Rebellion, or the Games. In their free time, they discuss frivolous matters. Like gossip and the best drinking games to the best brands of alcohol — it surprises even Effie herself that she knew much about it too. They're just enjoying each other's company. And neither of them are sure why they were getting along so well.

Maybe it was because they knew it was their last days together. Maybe they were indulging themselves, trying to patch up a tense relationship and years of friction. Maybe they just wanted to make things all better.

Whichever, whatever. One thing's for sure, Haymitch never felt worse about leaving her until now.

**.x.**

It's when the Games were reaching the end and the rebellion was just over the horizon that she got comfortably improper around him. Capitol attire off, one by one, until, at least according to his standards, she looks utterly normal.

She is sitting cross-legged on the couch, reading over the plans she took note of once more, when he taps her shoulder. Effie hums in response, then snaps her head over her shoulder to see what he wants. Their wineglasses clink together when he shakes them — "Lookee, Princess," — and there are three bottles of her favorite kind in his hands. Without another thought, she knew exactly what he was up to in a heartbeat.

Oh, his favorite pastime: _get the escort drunk_.

"I thought you were trying to quit," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Me?_ Quit?_" he scoffs, handing her a bottle. He jumps over the couch and plops down next to her; he lingers his stare, then promptly shuts the book in her hand and sets it aside. "I don't think you know me at all, Trinket."

She scoffs, her eyes flicking upwards. "Why must you insist on being a drunk ass all the time?" she asks, tucking her legs underneath her.

"I don't know, Eff," he says mockingly, "Why must you insist on being an uppity bitch all the time?"

She frowns, cracking open the wine and pouring a glass for him and herself — she sneers, "I'll have you know—"

"Reeeeee_lax_ sweetheart; just tip your glass and drink it. Can't stand you when you're sober," he remarks, snatching his drink from her hand.

"Oh, and I'm better drunk?" she laughs.

He stops, considering it. "Entertaining, at least." He cracks a wide grin when she snarls in disapproval.

She whacks his chest with her clenched fist. "Ass!"

Laughing, he pats his "wound" — it didn't hurt, not at all, but he could humor her — and sets a hand on her leg. She was always fairly defensive before she loosens up. _Such_ routine.

"Ow, calm down tiger," he snorts, waving her off with a brief smile.

Effie sinks back down, the glass rotating around in her hands as she sloshes the alcohol back and forth. What is she doing? Getting drunk? They have important things to be doing! Planning, preparing, waiting! What use are they drunk? None, none at all.

She bring her eyes to his to voice her opinion, and in that instant, she melts. He's smiling, for the love of God. He's not brooding now, he's enjoying himself…maybe a drink or two isn't so bad…

She finds herself smiling too.

"Ever play Never Have I Ever?" she pipes up to fill the silence; he arches an eyebrow and stares at her with a questioning look on his face, and she realizes that he's probably never heard of it before. "It's uh, an old drinking game I played back in high school."

"Princess, I don't need a game to dictate what and how to drink," he says sharply, dismissing her suggestion. After a moment, he scoffs again. He chuckles, "Drinking in high school, eh? Ain't that illegal around here…underage, right?"

"I wasn't the only one…it was fun and everyone else was doing it," she defends, blushing.

"Oh, and if everyone else decided it was fun to jump off a bridge, you would jump too?"

"Shut up, Haymitch, just play with me."

She fills their shot glasses — the pristine wineglasses now discarded and replaced with something tougher and more fit for their play — and tells him the rules of the game: for every thing she states, Haymitch, if he did in fact have done it before, will take a shot. She will too, if she had done it before.

"Wanna start, Princess?" He feigns his enthusiasm, because hey, he hates the game already. Damn Effie drags him into all her shit…

She thinks for a moment, then with a coy smile, says, "Never have I ever had a drunken one-night stand."

He frowns, downing his shot, "Ah, Effie, that's not fair!"

"Fair? What's fair in Panem, sweetheart?" she laughs, mocking. She holds her filled glass with pride. "I'm winning."

"Jump off your high horse, Effie, I think you're gonna end up losing by the end of this," he jokes, poking at her stomach.

"Wanna bet, Haymitch?" she says and rolls her eyes. That insufferable man! What did he mean by that? She narrows her eyes at him, almost angrily. If he wasn't so soberly amused, she would've snapped at him — and yet, yet the simple fact that he is willing to be with her, talk with her…that's all the reason to let that remark slide.

"Sure. Under all that frill and proper must be something wild. Anyway…never have I ever had sex with a man," he says jokingly._Check and mate._

She pouts, crossing her arms. "_That's_ unfair!"

"Oh is it? Didn't take you as one for premarital sex, Trinket."

"A woman," she whispers lowly, downing her shot in whole, "_has her needs_." She winks at him, and for a second, he feels a stirring, almost unnerving feeling course through him.

_Damn woman._

They continue like this, bouncing off ideas and theories and things they knew all too well about the other. They discover new things, too — he likes to sing in his personal time and she's gotten into several physical fights before (which she's proud to say she's only lost one). They run around in circles like this, a cycle of discoveries and old anecdotes, until both whiskey bottles are empty and both players are fairly drunk.

Haymitch, however, can hold his alcohol.

The escort is dancing around the kitchen in nothing but shorts and a tank — apparently, clothes were discarded in the process of the game — looking for more alcohol in cabinets. Unfortunately, it seems that they've exhausted their supplies.

She pouts, "S'no more alcohol…" She staggers back to the couch, her hands clenching onto anything to anchor her to something. Haymitch laughs. Her lack of sobriety, as always, is amusing to watch.

"Course not, Princess," he says. "But either way, you've lost the game and you've had too much to drink." He turns his head to her, who's managed to squish herself between him and the armrest on the couch.

"I lost?" she says, almost sadly. She giggles, "So you won?"

"Well, that's how winning and losing works," he says slowly, patronizingly. He pats the top of her head and moves to get up, "I'm going to be—"

"No!" she cries out, grabbing his arm. She pulls him closer, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She bites her bottom lip, and at the sight Haymitch's knees almost buckle. Good god, can she not do that to him? Her voice low and layered with lust, she says, "No, hold on. Let the loser show the winner a good time."

She takes her fingers and moves them over his collarbone, each touch sending shockwaves pulsing through him. "Effie…" he breathes, his hands reaching up to hold hers. "What—"

The woman smirks. In a blink of an eye, she laces her fingers around his belt loops and tugs him forward and presses her lips against his in one fluid motion.

She tastes like whiskey and fresh strawberries…and strangely, he likes it. Her lips are rough against his, her mind set on simply_ravaging_ him. It's like she's planning to eat him alive.

"Effie," he strangles out, his words masked with heavy lust and a moan riveting around her name.

But he wants to go slower. He wants to savor her taste, her body, her wonderland…

Oh, _fuck it._

He falls on top of her, their bodies like puzzle pieces once long gone and now perfectly found. Lying down now, she pulls him by the tie to get even closer; her other hand cups his cheek and by god, he loves it.

When they part for air, she says nothing. She only works her fingers to unbutton his shirt and her lips to feast on his pulse — every moment from thereon is intoxicating, mesmerizing. She'd dip back in to peck quicker kisses, meaningless little things. It drives him up the wall — she's so soft, so lovely under him….

A familiar tug at his pants awakens him from his ecstasy. He's on his back now, the woman trailing feathery kisses down his chest and is currently working on unzipping his trousers. Her nails brush his hip bone and he can't handle it. Too much all at once, but damn, she's so good…

"Effie—"

She looks up, smiling. She climbs over him, straddling his middle as she moves upward to kiss him one more time; their lips move at slow, sensual speeds, and it's nothing like her hungry kisses from just seconds before — does she mean it?

No, no, it's just the alcohol talking.

He's about to say her name again, to rouse her from her drunken state, but she grinds her hips against his and all is lost under every sweet, sweet circumstance.

"Effie," he breathes, and he doesn't want to interrupt her heavenly movements but — _"Stop, you're drunk."_

Nonsense, I know what I'm doing," she says, kissing him lightly on the lips once more.

"Effie, seriously," he says, pushing her body off of him. "Stop it."

She's taken aback, sitting straight up and away from him. "Are you telling me you don't want me?" she asks, her voice as small as a child's.

"Not…" he says, moving to the other side of the couch. She furrows her eyebrows, confused, and he doesn't blame her. He's confused too. "Not like this. You're drunk."

_"What?"_ she asks, leaning forward, as if that'll help her understand.

He grumbles under his breath, standing up suddenly to distance himself from her and her… wandering hands as far away as possible. He doesn't need this now, not like this. "G'night…"

"Wait, Haymitch—"

He's already out of the room before he could give her a chance to reason with him.

**.x.**

The next morning, she's moaning about the headache and the "bloody hangover" at the kitchen table. She almost ignores him completely, if not for their little exchange of half-hearted "good mornings."

When he takes a seat at the table, she politely excuses herself for her room.

He'd think he did something wrong until he sees that she's stirred him his coffee like usual. The steaming mug sits at the counter, and written in sugar on the marble surface is, _Sorry for last night._

Ah, good old Effie.

When he's finished with his breakfast, he leaves her a piping cup of black coffee and a message written in marked on her good mug — _It's nothing. ) _

He retreats to the couch and pretends to sleep, just so he could get away with hearing her mumble back to the kitchen and giggle with pride when she comes across his reply. She sighs in contentment with her beverage, and that's when he knows that nothing's really changed. Nothing really, nothing at all.

**.x.**

"Send the bread," Haymitch tells her as Plutarch's message flashes across his beeper. She looks up from her salad, almost questioning his command. A piece of lettuce falls out of mouth when she asks why.

"Just do it, trust me," he says. He looks up, stashing several bottles of wine into his sack, and waits. "Come on, woman, we don't have time."

The way she stares at him is undoubtedly apprehensive, and it stings. He discordantly walks over behind her, leaving the wine to fall and shatter on the marble tiling. He snatches the tablet out of her hands, pressing the flashing button on the screen to send the pieces of bread that would signal the start of the rebellion itself. In utter dismay Haymitch chucks the tablet at the wall; the device breaks into pieces among impact.

_Stupid, stupid Effie. She's killing what little time we have._

"Excuse me, Haymitch, that was rude," she harrumphs, pulling herself out of the couch. She sets the salad to the side messily, causing the bowl to tip over and spill. Unfazed, she walks to him and places her hands on her hips. She tauntingly glares at him, waiting for a response.

He finds the whole ordeal amusing. Only Effie would actually give two shits about promptness in a time like this.

"Sweetheart, leave your manners here, we gotta run," he chuckles. He turns away, resuming his speedy rescue for all the alcohol in the apartment. "C'mon now, Effie, get. We only got a couple hours before the Capitol knocks down our doors."

She looks at him straight in the eye.

"I'm not going with you."

He stops, his hands lingering on the fourth bottle of whiskey before he decides to put it in the bag anyway. Shaking his head, he corrects, "Yes, yes you are."

"No, no I'm _not_," she says, slowly this time. He doesn't dare look at her. Instead he hurriedly zips up his bag and starts for the door.

He feels her hand clamp over his arm and tug him back. He growls, "Stop it, Effie. You stupid woman, you're going with me whether you like it or not."

He lets himself be turned around by the petite woman, and for a second, he feels hatred for her. For himself. How dare she go ahead and lead him on, lead him to believe that they could have something of a relationship? How could he possibly even allow himself to be convinced by a proper bitch like her? That's what she does and that's why she exists — to torture him with the thought that his hands could be in hers and they could be more than quarreling enemies. He knows better than anyone that she's a _tease_. She's a_flirt_. She never meant anything she told him. She's just a stupid woman who's giving up on him and herself.

He shoves her off of him, stepping back. He didn't expect her to come closer. If anything, he expected her to pull away from him and let him go.

"You're committing suicide," he snarls.

His feet shuffle back and away. Away from this, away from her.

"You're being ridiculous," she counters.

Her heels clack forward to him and for him. He needs her, wants her, and she does too. But she's gotta do what she's gotta do.

"They're going to _kill_ you! How could stay?"

"Isn't that a risk we promised to take?" she cries out, throwing her hands up in the air — as if the most obvious thing to do is to sacrifice her life. She laughs mockingly, placing her hands back on her hips. She turns, just slightly, just enough so he can't look at her in the eye. "Someone's gotta be a fatalist…and that someone has always been me, hasn't it?"

Her breathing hitches. He can hear it through the thick-and-thin silence. "You're the catalyst of the grand old thing, after all, Haymitch. Just roles we are already in…why is it so different?"

He's hit hard by this. Feels like someone jammed an iron fist into his stomach. She glances down at her feet, almost ruefully, and he's glad she regrets saying it. It hurts him more than she would ever know.

"I don't think you understand what they would do to make you talk," he bites back.

She widens her eyes. Fear soon takes over and replaces her false bravery. Like everything became much more than a well-meaning dream. This is a rebellion. This isn't some board game where you can restart if you screw up and want to go back. The choices you make count. He knew that; did she?

"Can't be any different than what I've heard around…rape, torture and all that jazz," she whispers. "It's just a game. What will be, will be."

He steps forward and grabs her arm. "Don't you fucking talk like that," he screams. It scares her, he knows that, hell, everything does. Still, she stands her ground. Effie looks at him with the most determined expression written across her face, and in that moment he realizes that just about nothing will change her mind.

He rips his eyes away from hers. He doesn't dare move. His grip on her tightens and doesn't want to let go. He doesn't want to leave her.

"Don't you think this is for hard for me too?" Her voice quakes and she bites her bottom lip, her eyes looking up to the ceiling, to God if she ever believed in Him — but she doesn't, she told him once. Hell if she did.

"Do you think I'd want to be beat and kicked to the ground till I'm bleeding out? Do you think I'd want to be a Peacekeeper's whore-for-the-night? Do you?" She slaps her hand over her mouth like it's just now that she's figured out the costs of war. "I don't want to die like that. I don't want you to go, I just—" Her cresting volume softens, her words submissive and yielding. "I'm scared, you know. So fucking scared."

"Then come with me," he whispers.

There's a silence in between the District 12 mentor and escort, and it's heavy and uninterrupted. It's bothersome. It's painful.

He feels her hand travel to his, and cautiously, she rests it on her chest, hovering above where her beating heart lies. She nods, tears trickling down the sharp slopes of her cheeks. "Right here, Haymitch, right here, it's telling me that I'm going to be perfectly fine. I'm going to be okay."

"What if you don't come back?"

"Then," she gulps, "Then we say our goodbyes…" she trails off, unable to come to terms with her own fate. He studies her — just simply studies her, admiring her strength at a time like this.

The air around them is lighter, their heavy breaths slicing through the silence like knives. When she brings her eyes to his again, he sees lust and need and sadness clouding her eyes; her nails dig moons into his hand, her chest heaving up and pressing up against his.

He couldn't take it anymore. He takes her by the shoulders and slams her up against the nearest wall — awareness of location, it seems, is irrelevant in time like this.

Her back hits the surface with a thud, a small gasp rolling from her mouth. She eyes him attentively, but he doesn't care, doesn't mind. He leans into her so that their foreheads touch and their lips mere moments away from meeting.

"Time—?"

"We have hours," he finishes, and with that, he lets her gravity pull him in and captures her lips with his.

The kiss is slow, sensual, their first in what seems like years. But this isn't the case of drunken carelessness—this is meant for goodbyes. He makes note of how soft she moves against him, how pliant she becomes once his lips work at a faster pace.

Her hands move up his chest and grips relentlessly at his shirt, her fist tightening around the fabric as if her life depends on it. He feels her breasts push up against his chest and he loses it — breathless, he runs his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer, ravaging and exploring her mouth with his.

She leans back ever so slightly, panting for air as she looks up at him, her lips swollen and puffy as they crease into a warm smile. He trails the edges of her mouth with his own, his stubbled cheeks gritting against the smooth surface of her own as she whispers a muttered, "Haymitch…"

She licks her lips and she moves so malleably under him. Haymitch stares at her, watching the lust transforming into passion, need. He sends shivers up her spine as he works to pull her shirt over her head. He leaves quick, teasing kisses down her stomach as he descends down her body. The victor kneels, devouring the pale, supple skin that covers her curves.

"Effie—"

He marvels at how amazing and beautiful she is.

Her knees buckle and she is just as eager as he is. His pants tighten and he wants her — no, needs right now. He stands back up and sucks on her neck, craning for more but flinching with pleasure. She moans, the sound so wonderful in his ears. Effie buries her head in his shoulder and wonders how long it's been since she's been with a man. Weeks? Months? She lost count. It's never been on her mind until —

He slips his fingers through her jeans and touches her in ways that makes her mind race in ways that should be dangerously reckless, but yet, yet she doesn't mind. She bucks her hips, wanting more, more, more.

"Haymitch…" she begs.

He smiles at how much she's desiring him.

His fingers work faster, his lips trailing shadowing down her neck in patterns, sucking harder on her uncharted skin, and he is in awe how much noise this woman makes. She groans in pleasure as he eats her alive, those teeth gritting against every inch of her pulsating, radiating skin — and she fucking loves it.

He pulls away and is quick to unbutton her pants, discarding the clothing that separates them from being. Eyes shut closed, their lips meet again and he picks her up, their mouths plundering the others, fighting in a battle for dominance. She cups his cheek with her hand, and as she opens her eyes, she stares right at him. And she smiles, for the love of God.

He finds it extremely difficult to navigate back to the bedroom with a beautiful woman in his arms feasting on his pulse as if it's the last thing she'll ever do. It also doesn't help that she unclasps her bra right in his arms and and winks teasingly at him as she does so.

Just as quickly as the door slammed open, he throws her on the bed; he swallows her sharp, high-pitched gasp as he attaches his lips to hers. Passionate, years of raw sexual tension pouring forth. He trails little kisses down the valley of her body and admires at how young this woman is and lucky he is to have her right here, right now.

She unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans; he slips off her lacy panties and his boxers. And in one braving glance, he looks up at her. She's teary-eyed, but so goddamn ready for their goodbye.

He sees her head nod a bit and he pulls her hips forward and crashes himself into her.

The mentor, the man — he's perfectly blindsided by the screams and moans that this woman makes in pleasure and astonishment. It feels so damn good. The rhythm they make together is impeccable, bringing simultaneous gasps and encouragement and wonder and heaven all in one.

_God, this woman's work._

Effie's hands rake through his hair, her moans elicit and real and her breathing erratic and erotic, pulling him closer and closer to the edge until —

Euphoria. And colors. And stars. That's what clouds his mind as his peak is reached and his eyes meet hers once more. He leans down and kisses her, softly, nothing of passion nor lust but just respect. Just cascading nostalgia. He rolls over beside her, And he watches her chest rise and fall as she tries to catch herself, tries to put herself back on track.

Her hand clamps onto his and they stay like that for a couple of minutes, soaking in the last few moments of normalcy.

"You have to leave," she whispers, running her thumb over his, "Without me, Haymitch."

"I know," he admits.

She exhales, shakily, faltering. "I'll be fine," she says.

"I know."

The silence between them is slow, steady, conspicuous. She locks her pinky around his and laughs, "Promise you won't forget me?"

He shakes his head, chuckling at her way of making things cheery, "As long as you promise to stay alive."

She sits up, beams at him. She hovers above him, leaning down and kissing him once more. "Just for you."

Her smile is forgiving. Warm. Hopeful. It tells him stories of things unspoken and spoken. And oddly, it's what comforts him as they rise minutes later to dress and resume life as they know it.

"Haymitch?"

She walks over to him as he slips on his shirt; she's all dressed, all dolled up again, giving no need to suspect anything out of the ordinary. She smooths out his crumpled tie and tightens it for him, the fabric creasing under her dainty fingers. Her hands linger there until she whispers a timid admittance, "I…care a lot about you. Be safe."

"You shouldn't be worried about me, Princess," he says.

She purses her lips tightly, her voice quivering out a small, "If I don't come back…it will never be your fault. Just know that."

He nods. Squeezes her hand in his. They don't exchange what they already feel, and "I love yous" made everything more painful. Instead they stare at each other, drinking every last moment in before they had to part. Effie waves goodbye one more time. And just as quickly as he fell for Effie Trinket, he left to fight a war that's anything but safe for someone like her.

* * *

**a/n: lol just a lil obsessed okay. review because its sexy. ...please? :P /please excuse all spelling or technical mistakes.**


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